


Either a God or a Wolf

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bruises, Dominance, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, past Éponine/Montparnasse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone in bed, Montparnasse ponders the question of the queer old man and indulges in a little fantasy involving the stranger's strength and how that vigor might be put to better use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Either a God or a Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/gifts).



> Written for the kink meme for the prompt: "Montparnasse masturbating while thinking about how easily Valjean pinned him and how strong he was."
> 
> Includes mention of past Eponine/Montparnasse.

"Man is to man either a god or a wolf." -Desiderius Erasmus

 

* * *

 

Montparnasse was a young man whose decisions were dictated by his desires and instincts. Before the old man, he had never engaged in a moment of introspection in his life. After the old man, his mind tried to return to its old ways, and yet he found that he could not stop thinking of the encounter.   
  
It was the strangeness of the man, Montparnasse decided one evening as he recalled the incident yet again. It was his third such sleepless night. The man was a mystery, and mysteries were meant to be solved, though Montparnasse had never fancied himself a detective.   
  
Montparnasse glared up at his ceiling which held no answers, and instead only served to let his imagination draw the man's figure there and mock him. The man had walked bent and moved slowly like his bones ached with every step, and then there had been the whiteness of his hair which would have signaled old age in anyone else. Anyone might have thought him an elderly gentleman on a stroll.   
  
It had only been after Montparnasse had been caught that he had seen the man's face was lined but not so old as all that, had noticed too late the banked vigor in those broad shoulders and large, callused hands.   
  
He remembered that strength now with a shiver that worked its way down his spine, how easily the man had kept hold of him. The man had seemed oblivious and unconcerned even by Montparnasse's mightiest efforts to escape. He had pinned both Montparnasse's arms with only one of his hands and lost himself in some queer contemplation.  
  
The man had dominated him wholly. Montparnasse shifted restlessly on his bed at the thought. The heat that spread through his belly was a new reaction to his contemplation of the old man, but not entirely a surprise. The games which he and Eponine played in the dark often involved seeing who could best the other, and Montparnasse had found himself not entirely displeased the times Eponine had borne him down upon his bed or against an alley wall, her hold painfully tight and her expression victorious.   
  
He licked his lips, his mouth dry. Though he wore only a half-buttoned shirt and lay under a thin blanket, he found himself too warm. He kicked away the blanket. It did not help.   
  
It was only now that Montparnasse wondered if he might have shaken the old man from his thoughts and escaped him through some other, more pleasurable means. Might he have unnerved him and broken his hold by pressing closer? He closed his eyes, the man's face appearing upon the back of his eyelids. He imagined trying to drop to his knees, how the man might have reacted if Montparnasse had pressed his cheek to his knee and made no further move to escape.  
  
Would the old man have shoved him away in disgust? Or would those powerful hands have moved to Montparnasse's head, cradled it with the promise of strength that might have crushed his skull if the man had chosen to tighten his grip, urged Montparnasse's mouth upwards?  
  
Montparnasse's mouth, dry only a moment earlier, now watered. He imagined his freed hands tugging down the man's pants to reveal those muscular legs and the man's interested prick.   
  
The man's power had been tightly controlled, his hands steady and as unmovable as a mountain upon Montparnasse's arms-- would he hold on to that control with Montparnasse's mouth upon his prick? Or would all that restraint come undone, the man's hips thrusting forward in a way that would leave Montparnasse's throat raw and jaw aching for days, his hands pressing bruises into Montparnasse's skin? However the man reacted, he would as likely as not seek to reciprocate once he had spent himself in Montparnasse's mouth.   
  
Montparnasse pushed up his shirt, took himself in hand. He gave himself a rough stroke, imagining the man's thick fingers squeezing him instead. The man would attempt to be gentle at first, he suspected, recalling the man's expression, but he might obey Montparnasse's urges to be rougher.   
  
He squeezed himself harder, trying to find the right balance of pain and pleasure. He envisioned the man finding that perfect rhythm and pressure, one hand stroking him, the other clapped tight upon Montparnasse's neck to hold him in place.

His bed creaked underneath him as he rocked into his own grip. He almost found the perfect pressure, the occasional spark of discomfort making his breath catch in his throat, but tonight he could not find the right speed or force. He arched into his hand, a growl of frustration escaping his lips.   
  
Montparnasse groped blindly, his free hand grasping at the discarded blanket, but even imagining that he clutched at the man’s coat instead of the blanket did not help. At last, desperate, he gripped his neck where the old man might have held him, tightened his hold until he knew there would be bruises, until he would have to wear a particularly high collar and impressive cravat the next day to avoid questions and curious looks.   
  
It was that thought, and the image of the man working him roughly, that finally pushed him over into ecstasy. The man’s face was briefly wiped off the back of his eyelids as Montparnasse came. He collapsed bonelessly upon the bed, panting.   
  
His fingers ached, twinges of pain that drew his mind slowly back to the present and out of the euphoric blankness that inevitably came with his spending. Montparnasse dropped his hand from around his neck and removed the other from where it still clasped his prick. He uncurled his fingers, somewhat amused at the protest the stiff muscles made and half-laughing at the aches his exertions had earned him.   
  
After a moment’s consideration, he picked up a mirror from his bedside table and surveyed his neck. Yes, there would be bruises, though of course the imprints would be small and thin, an obvious hand-print but one, Montparnasse thought with an old, familiar amusement as he flexed his long, delicate fingers once more, that many might mistake for a woman’s.  
  
The bruises left behind by the man would have been thicker, might have encompassed the whole of his throat. Montparnasse touched the red marks lightly and did not allow himself to feel disappointed.   
  
Still, his thoughts turned again to the man and the mystery he posed. Montparnasse tapped a thoughtful finger against one of the redder marks. Restlessness gnawed at his belly once more, made him frown. He had not expected the unsettled feeling to return so quickly, this queer uneasiness that left him staring at his ceiling until dawn.   
  
Perhaps he should find his way to that spot where he had come upon the man, see if the old man strolled there often. That might put an end to these thoughts. He almost smiled, wondering what the man would do if Montparnasse attempted to leap upon him once more. Besides, even if the man no longer frequented that particular street, there were certainly other ways for Montparnasse to entertain himself on such a stroll.   
  
He tuned out the voice that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the back of his mind, the one that whispered of his good looks lost to prison and misery. Montparnasse's gaze strayed to his coat which, while of the best cut, was threadbare and old.   
  
Perhaps, he thought, ignoring the murmurings in the back of his mind of white locks and lost beauty, it was time for a new coat.


End file.
